1920s: St Andrew's days etched forever

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I don’t know whether 1928 was a good year for wine or if it produced any celebrities of note, but it was a good year for me. On a foggy Sunday in November, I was brought into this world by my grandma Moreton, who was the area midwife for Alvaston. My birthplace was Oxford Street, Derby.

I was very pleased about that in later life. It sounded much posher than saying you were born in Deadman’s Lane or Canal Street. Oxford Street was part of the parish of St Andrew’s which sadly is no more. The German bombers had a go at it first, then the town planners finished it off. Vast rows of houses were compulsory purchased and knocked down with no apparent plan as to what was going in the wide open spaces.

The Derbyshire Royal Infirmary did expand over my area and I smile to think of people paying a fee to park over the spot where I was born.

I think I might have been born too soon because I had a very inquisitive mind and could not accept anything at face value.

I always challenged things and had to know what was around the corner or what was in that box or why did they do things in a particular way. My mother often told me that curiosity killed the cat, but I was no pussy.

There were two steps to get into our house. The trouble was that they were cleaned daily with a stone abrasive and, if my little feet stood on them, I got a wigging.

The best room in the house was the front room, used only if royalty came to tea or as a laying-out room for a family death. It seemed daft to me when we only lived in a small house where rooms were at a premium for a family of six. The front room curtains were always hung with the pattern facing the street to impress the neighbours.

My mother came from a large family so I had a lot of aunts and uncles. When the aunts came round for an afternoon cup of tea, they would sit around wearing fancy hats with veils and hat pins, and fox furs around their necks fastened with the fox’s mouth holding the tail.

As I grew older and was allowed on the street, it wasn’t long before I was seeking what was around the corner.

The parish was dominated by St Andrew’s Church with its dramatic 200ft steeple. A lot of railway workers lived in the area, which was not surprising considering the proximity of the station, the Loco Works and the Carriage and Wagon Works. Like my father, many liked to walk to work. Shank’s pony was a more sure way of getting to work on time as lateness was considered a crime. Two minutes late and you were “quarter-houred” as they called it.

The church was to play a large part in my younger life and I soon went to Sunday school, then became a choir boy and server at communion. It wasn’t that I was ultra-religious or had a brilliant voice, but I was paid a halfpenny for every service and practice, which I received every three months. It was big money to me. Also, you were not allowed to be in the boys’ club if you didn’t go to church.

The railway station was a magnet to me. I could never understand why it was built so far from the town centre. Someone said it had to be near the railway line. I can just imagine, when it was first built, passengers wanting to go to Buxton being told the stagecoach went in 10 minutes from the Bell Inn in Sadler Gate.

Of course, they would arrive just in time to see the stage and horses galloping away up Iron Gate. Now you know why people walked so quickly (as in the old silent movies) in the olden days!

I suppose it was good for the B&B trade if the stage only went once a week.

We moved from Oxford Street to Arboretum Street, then to Grayling Street and then to two different houses in Regent Street. My mother would move house regularly if she could save sixpence in rent a week.

I was happy because it was nearer the station and because of an early desire to be a train driver. I had to be where the action was. Somehow the station staff in their peaked caps didn’t seem to like little boys patrolling their patch, especially when they didn’t have a penny for a platform ticket. I had to do two choir sessions to earn that sort of money.

I tried to walk in backwards, pretending I was coming out but they were wise to it. I did find a way in once by going up Siddals Road a little way to where there was an open gate by the banana warehouse at the end of platform one. But all to no avail. An officious-looking man soon asked me what I wanted and when I meekly said, “Nothing”, he told me to go.

I settled for watching the trains as they came over the Five Arches bridge. There was a pedestrian path which gave access to the Meadows and River Derwent only a few feet from the railway line. No-one could chase us off from there. A lot of trains stopped there before entering the station and we used to shout to the passengers: “Penny down.”

If they threw halfpennies, we would put them on the track for the next train to squash them into pennies. If my dad had found out the razor strap would have said hello to my bottom a few times.

When the river was low, it was treasure hunt time. By walking through the Meadows along the river bank, you came to a number of stony beaches on the bends. The treasures were what had been washed downstream from the abattoir at the Cattle Market. There was always a good selection of cows’ horns and sheep skulls. We tried to blow the horns like Robin Hood but without success. My sisters and mother were not very keen on the sheep skulls either.

In most streets, the kids formed gangs to play and keep themselves amused. Lack of money did not mean we were bored or lacked things to do.

My pocket money was a Friday penny and a Saturday sixpence. The Friday penny was from my dad’s pay-packet and the sixpence came from dad’s cap which was passed round the pub where he played the piano.

They told me he played by ear; I wasn’t bothered what he played with so long as I got my sixpence! My pals, who hadn’t got a musical dad, were a bit poorer. It was a struggle to find the cash to go to the local cinema – the Cosy.

It was twopence in the front stalls, threepence in the back stalls and fourpence in the circle. Sometimes, one of the gang paid to go in and then let the rest in through the emergency exit at the back. It worked all right if it wasn’t full. The timing and stealth had shades of the SAS.

I think it was named the Cosy because the fleas were comfortable there, although they occasionally sprayed everywhere and everyone with some horrible smelly stuff. The cinema, of course, has long been closed – after a spell being called the Forum and the Cameo.

We would re-enact some of the films we saw. Cowboy and Indians was a favourite, along with Robin Hood etc. One day I went to a pal’s house after seeing Beau Geste and the French Foreign Legion and we had our lead soldiers attacking a fort. It didn’t seem very realistic, so we covered the table with sand. We pinged the sand with our fingers to simulate gun shots, oblivious to the fact that it was going all over the room. A banning order followed.

Roller-skating appealed to me but they cost money. Woolworth’s sold a very basic skate for sixpence each, which had little red wheels with no ball bearings. I parted with a Saturday sixpence and bought one and scooted around until I could afford the other.

Once I had wheels there was no stopping me, but I needed to earn some extra money to buy a super pair. Curry’s were selling just what I wanted at 3s 11d (20p). The wheels had ball bearings with rubber cushions and a front clamp which proved to be quite effective until it pulled off the sole of your shoe (how mother loved me).

To get the money, I ran errands, returned jam jars to the Co-op, ½d for a 1lb jar and 1d for a 2lb jar. Pop and beer bottles carried a good deposit.

For the big money, paper rounds were available. You could also get a shilling for a run to the gas works at Deadman’s Lane for coke (the stuff you burn, of course).

The start of the war created a whole new aspect to our life and seemed very exciting. One morning my mother put all my clothes in one small bag, fastened a label to a button on my coat, saying who I was, and with my gas mask in a cardboard box over my shoulder I was ready to be taken from my parents and lumbered on some unsuspecting folks who happened to live in the countryside.

We assembled at the departure point at Reginald Street School and, when my best friend arrived with his mum, both mums started crying and decided they wouldn’t let us go, muttering something to the effect that we should all die together. Her words nearly came true when later we were bombed in Regent Street.

With most of the Derby children taken away, the town resembled Hamelin after the Pied-Piper had been. It didn’t take long for the authorities to take advantage of the created space and any household with a spare room were allocated soldiers to billet. On, what a lovely war!

The few of us children who didn’t go had no education for nine months and then we were rounded up to have some schooling. We did mornings one week and afternoons the next in the offices of the Walls ice-cream factory in Traffic Street.

Ice-cream manufacture had ceased for the duration of the war. It was funny to see rows of the three-wheel “stop me and buy one” carts which they pedalled.

The station area was deemed a target area for the German bombers, so it got its fair share of large barrage balloons. There was plenty of space for them on Bass’ Rec and the Arboretum, but it was fun and games with the one on the lawn of the Midland Hotel.

On a windy day, the nearby chimney pots were in peril and, once, when it fell in flames from a great height, having been struck by lightning, the cable caused havoc as it draped across countless roofs.

Most of the bombs that fell on Derby were in the area of the balloons. Did the German pilots, on seeing a glut of balloons think: “Ah, there must be something down there worth bombing”?

My pet hate was having my hair cut. My mum liked it short so she could easily check it for nits, but I liked a bit of style, especially when I found out that girls were different from boys.

I always went to Morton’s on London Road, who advertised “six chairs – no waiting”. I often waited because it was full of railway men quite happy to be shorn like sheep as they then covered their heads with a cap.

I spent a lot of time at St Andrew’s as a choir boy and server and fully enjoyed the activities of the club. All this was controlled by the Rev Victor Thomas South Jagg, known to as a “vic”.

When the Army made camp on Osmaston Park (now Ascot Drive, etc), the padre was the brother of the famous General Montgomery and his name was Colin. He resembled Monty and had the same shrill voice. He visited the church quite often and I got to know him quite well. Once there was a fair on Bass’s Rec and he wanted to go to see it, having never been to one. I took him on the octopus and he was squealing like a girl. I pretended he wasn’t with me.

Every fourth Sunday was church parade for the soldiers and they filled the church. They had their own band and the sound was magic as they sung the hymns to the church organ and band. They assembled in ranks of three afterwards and took up the length of Bloomfield Street. The sergeant major could shout loud enough for them all to hear the quick march.

It was a sight to see – the band playing and the mass of khaki, all wearing helmets.

The church’s stained glass windows at the front of the building were very extensive, but had become very soiled. Coal fires and smoke screens were the main culprits. It was decided to erect some scaffolding and have them cleaned by volunteers.

I was one of the volunteers and Colin Montgomery took a photo of us about 50ft up. It appeared in the Derbyshire Advertiser and it was the first my mum and dad knew about it. If I had asked permission, it would have been refused.

I remember the bombing of the LMS railway station. It happened during the night and I couldn’t wait to get in and look at it. It was guarded, of course, but I found a way.

A friend’s father worked at the Midland Hotel. There were underground passages connecting the hotel to the station. He took my friend and me to see the damage. I suppose it was highly dangerous because there were supposed to be some unexploded bombs, though I have never seen that confirmed.

Filming was not possible and I could have been shot. The whole scene impressed me so much that I later did a pencil drawing.

All treasured memories I shall never forget.

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